Tense
by kairismatic
Summary: They're not friends. A request. Rated for Language.


They're not friends, but they live together. Andy stays on his side of the apartment mostly, and Chucky stays on his. They don't share a lot of words outside of the occasional remark of where one is going and when they plan to be back. Andy doesn't ask Chucky about his side, and Chucky doesn't ask Andy about his. It's cordial, it's tense. But it's better than either of them pretending that they can survive without the other in their general vicinity.

Andy doesn't ask about the blood on Chucky's hands, and Chucky doesn't question the fresh marks on Andy's arms. It's tense.

They're not friends, but they sometimes sit on the couch together, Andy crushed against one side and Chucky against the other, both leaving as much space between them as possible. They don't laugh, for fear that they'll laugh at the same jokes, and then they'll have to admit that there may be a chance they will get along just fine. So they sit in silence, clenching their jaws, and its tense.

They don't eat together, they don't share chores. Andy takes care of himself and Chucky does the same. Andy doesn't ask about the cries of pain at night, and Chucky doesn't ask about the too many empty bottles lying around the house. It's as if they were not living in the same space at all, but were very far away from each other. It's tense.

Andy and Kristen are sitting outside on a park bench when she asks about it, looking tense herself. It's as if she can feel it radiating off of Andy in waves, and she almost regrets asking. But she is curious, and she is worried, and Andy is her friend. She doesn't ask anything else. She has no need to. Chucky has seemed to keep his part of the bargain so far, and so she will keep hers.

"So… how is it then?" Kristen finally asks Andy. It's been two months. He hasn't told her a thing. They've danced around the subject for a while now.

Andy watches the way his breath puffs and feels the way the wind bites at the tip of his nose just right. He's always liked the cold better. Everything feels fresh and new, even though nature itself is dying around him. Maybe it's because he knows they're only sleeping, and will wake up again, fresh and new, in spring.

Or maybe it's just because he hates the heat.

"It's what it is," he responds, and Kristen huffs angrily before sipping on her tea in silence.

"You'd tell me if he was hurting you, right?" she asks, after a while.

"Of course," he says. "But he doesn't. We're just co-existing."

Kristen doesn't know if this current arrangement of theirs is better or worse for Andy. But he doesn't seem to want to change it, and so she asks no more questions on the subject, and contents herself with updating him on Jeeves' band performance and other mundane things. Anything except what she would actually like to talk with him about. But it's tense, and she has neither the force nor the velocity to break it.

They're not friends, but they like the same music, and it kills them. It's hard to keep stoic when the radio is on in the living room, and Andy is tapping his feet and singing along under his breath while Chucky is nearby, humming to himself. It's harder when they both like a certain part in a certain song, and find themselves both belting out certain lyrics, only to stare at each other coldly for a long time before parting eyes.

It's tense, and the way the music seems to try and break their walls only makes it more so.

They're not friends, but sometimes Chucky says things that make Andy laugh, and sometimes Andy does things that make Chucky laugh, and then it's hard to go back and erase that it happened.

Tiffany calls often, and Chucky hardly answers, but when he does, she always asks about it. He tells her the same thing every time. They argue on the phone and he knows that Andy hears them, and he _knows_ that Andy knows they're talking about him, and it puts him on edge.

"Have you dipped your wick yet?" she'll ask.

"It's not like that, and you _know_ it," he'll say.

He can almost hear her smirk when she asks it each time. He knows that it's not what she means, and she knows his response is not entirely true. Still, it only makes things worse, especially with Andy in hearing range.

He doesn't ask how Andy's mother is, and Andy doesn't ask about his kids. It's tense.

It wouldn't be so bad, with Andy away at work so much, if it didn't bother Chucky that he _was_ gone so much. He doesn't know if this is worse or better. He feels uncertain when Andy is not there, and just the same when he is there. He doesn't sleep well at night, even though the mattress in the spare room is just fine and he's only a little cold. Every noise keeps him awake and his bones ache. But he can't sleep well during the day either, if he tries. Not with Andy walking around and awake.

It wouldn't be so bad, that Chucky is around like he's always been, if it didn't leave Andy wanting for something more, and less at the same time. He doesn't like the presence of someone in his house that he can't just talk to, but he doesn't want to talk to Chucky. He doesn't sleep well at night either, empty and his hands grasping the sheets or his pillow. He wants to know where Chucky is and not know at the same time, and he grapples with these polar opposites late into the night.

They're not friends, but Chucky comes downstairs sometimes from the apartment to Andy's shop, just to pester him. Because he's got nothing better to do. He only comes out if there are no customers around to see him, and Andy's got no one to talk to. It's the only way to trap him in this misery.

"You look like a regular Ginger Rodgers," Andy says, his tone clipped. He looks back down at his magazine and flips through it, seemingly unbothered by Chucky's arrival.

If they were friends he would laugh, but as they are not, he does not. A shame and a pity.

"I'm just becoming human, I've been in this body too long," Chucky explains, in a matter of fact sort of way He jumps on the counter to sit next to where Andy's arms rest, but not too close. He holds his arm out under Andy's nose. "Here- feel my arm, it's fucking soft. It's turning into skin."

"I'm not touching you." It's disarming to see Andy say something with such a poison in his voice and yet such a pleasant expression on his face. The talent of customer service is commendable, Chucky will admit that. Andy is a con artist when it comes to his facial expressions, it's no wonder he does so well now in retail.

They're not friends, but Chucky does this often, and Andy is a little less miserable at work. He hates that this is how it works, and he doesn't mention it, but he doesn't tell Chucky to go away either. They just exchange insults. It's tense.

When the storm hits, it's been five months, and they're both in the kitchen. Andy is stirring some rice in a pot and Chucky is looking on, consistently critical.

"Do you mind? I'm trying to cook something here," he says, elbowing Chucky further away. He's too close, and Andy had thought there was a silent agreement on personal space. He realizes he had thought wrong.

"Oh, is _that_ why it smells like a fucking crematorium?" Chucky asks, leaning in again, despite Andy's silent protest. He sniffs the pot and wrinkles his nose in disgust. "Jesus, what are you killing in there?"

Andy scowls at him. "What's it matter to you- you're not eating it," he argues, elbowing him away again. It's raining very hard outside.

"Let me fix this," Chucky says, suddenly. It could mean anything, and it means more than one thing. It's very tense. Andy looks at him for a while, and Chucky thinks a million different things, but none of them are what happens.

"No," is what Andy says, and for some reason, it hurts. His scowl deepens and he is just about to leave, when there is a sudden flash of lightning, and an even more sudden and loud thunderclap just behind it. Andy jumps.

"Did that scare you?" Chucky asks, a little too smug.

"No," Andy says again. He shifts so that they have more distance between them. "Loud sounds just bother me." He looks at Chucky with a small but vicious frown. "Kind of like you."

"Well, then," Chucky says. He hops down from the counter next to the stove and reaches into the bottom cabinets. He pulls out two pans and starts to bang them together. Andy flinches angrily.

"Let. Me. Fix. This," Chucky says again, but loud enough to be heard over the pans. All the better. The thunder claps again. Andy growls in frustration and covers his ears.

" _Fine,_ " Andy grinds out through clenched teeth. He leaves the kitchen with the same ferocity as the storm. Chucky grins to himself triumphantly and sets to expunging the smell as quickly as possible. He's no cook, but he knows he is somewhat better than Andy, and it won't do to have to smell whatever this could have been all night.

They're not friends, but Chucky leaves some of it for Andy, just to show off.

"Did you just…" Andy starts to ask.

"Shut up and eat it," Chucky says, and it's tense. But Andy eats anyways, saying nothing and feeling everything. The thunder rolls again, but it seems that Andy has gotten used to the loud sounds by now, as he continues to eat unbothered.

"What did you put in here?" Andy asks between forkfuls.

"A little of this, a little of that," Chucky responds. The storm is still raging over them, but it sounds really dull in his ears. "Some garlic, some onion, those little flakes- what are they called?- _red pepper flakes_. Those things, for a little kick, you know? You have to stir it all right away and then leave it alone though, or the rice gets a little-"

Thunder claps again, and Chucky silences suddenly. Andy watches him for a time, and then returns to eating. Chucky feels a growing uncomfortableness, a vulnerability.

Andy feels something too, but he decides to let the matter rest for now. Instead, they eat in silence, and it's a strange awkwardness. Almost as if they should be talking.

There's another crash, and this time, both Andy and Chucky jump.

"That wasn't just thunder," Andy says.

"No shit, Sherlock," Chucky replies. "Where'd you get your degree, Harvard?"

Andy rolls his eyes at him and gets up, and everything feels normal again. Chucky sits back a bit and tries to swallow his quickened pules along with his last bite before letting his curiosity get the better of him. He slides down from the chair, feet straining to find the floor before he falls.

When he enters the living space, Andy is shuffling his feet, looking guilty. Lightning fills the room again and there is another loud peal of thunder, and it catches Andy off guard.

"I've got bad news for you," Andy says, and it's surreal, that Andy looks upset for his misfortune.

Chucky cocks his head a little. He can see where the guest room- his room- has the door open. He looks back at Andy.

"What… happened?" he asks.

"The tree is what happened," Andy replies, still shuffling his feet. "You know, that big white oak that's right in front of the store? And this apartment? The one I told you the city just built around it instead of tearing down?"

"The one I said they _should_ fucking tear down?" Chucky asks, a little tersely. He already knows where this is going, and he isn't sure he likes it. "And you tried to fight me about how it wasn't hurting anyone?"

"It _wasn't_ ," Andy insists. "And it's not it's fault either."

"Oh, spare me the bullshit, Andy," Chucky growls. He shuffles past Andy into the room, where he can see that the tree has fallen over through his window and onto his bed. The rain is splashing in mercilessly, and there is already a pool at the foot of the bed. Everything smells of the fresh rain and the earthy wind, but it doesn't dull his sour mood. He sighs and rubs his eyes before deciding that it isn't worth pitching any sort of fit about.

"You made me think it was something really bad," he says instead when he rejoins Andy in the living room. He grins, a little mischievous despite his misfortune. "You don't _care_ about me or anything, do you?"

Andy only smirks back, his eyes dead. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he asks, equally as smug.

"Whatever," Chucky snaps. He's only stung because he has no quick remark, and it seems to happen a lot with Andy. "I'm just gonna steal one of your pillows, how about that? I'm always hot at night anyways."

This is a lie, but Andy does not know this. Andy does not need to know anything at all.

Andy shrugs and disappears into his room for a time, only to return with a pillow. And a blanket, but Chucky doesn't say anything about it, and neither does Andy. They return to the usual silence, save for a squabble in the bathroom on who is hogging the sink and who needs to shower first. Andy retires to his room, and Chucky spreads out on the couch. Only the rain and the thunder are there to bid either of them good night, as they refuse to say it to each other. Chucky doesn't think about the way Andy had given him the blanket, and Andy doesn't think about the way Chucky had made the both of them food. They both think that things will be the same tomorrow, and it is tense.

So tense, in fact, that Chucky finds the couch lumpy and cannot seem to shift into a position that he deems comfortable. It doesn't help that he can almost _hear_ Andy falling asleep in his bed, now closer than usual. Now so close. Now _too_ close.

It takes a good minute or so for him to ignore the way his heart races at his thoughts and to muster up the gall to storm into Andy's bedroom, the door slamming against the wall. He's satisfied enough to see that Andy has not been sleeping either, but instead scribbling away in what looks like a well-used journal. One that he recognizes, and has read through before. He doesn't mention it.

It's tense, but he's ignoring it, screaming at Andy before he loses the nerve. He tries to be louder than the strong and strange atmosphere.

"Move over, I'm not sleeping out there. Your couch sucks," he announces.

Andy snaps his journal closed and jams it into the desk drawer besides him. "I'm _not_ sharing my bed with you," he says, eyes narrowing.

"I didn't say you were going to. _You_ can go sleep on the couch." He's already climbing onto the bed and making himself comfortable, his toes wiggling under the blankets and sheets.

"It's _my_ bed!" Andy protests, but he doesn't push Chucky off either. They don't mention it.

"Well, it's mine now."

"But this is _my_ apartment, you big jerk."

"Okay, so maybe I'll just leave _your_ apartment all to _you_!"

"Oh, _please_. You won't."

He's right, and they both know it. They're scowling at each other for an awfully long time, and then Chucky breaks.

"Oh, _c'mon,_ Andy!" he almost whines. "Don't make such a big fucking ordeal about it! Just," he pushes at Andy to no avail, " _stay_ on your side, and I'll stay on mine, okay?"

"Fine," Andy huffs, "But stay on _your_ side." And he rolls onto his side facing away from Chucky, and Chucky does the same. The storm and rain go steadily on as the two of them lie there in silence. Both are lost in thoughts of their own, thoughts that they want to escape, and thoughts they want to indulge all at the same time. Finally, Chucky speaks up again:

"That room's gonna be a hell of a mess to clean up tomorrow."

"Shut _up_ ," Andy says. "I'm trying to pretend you're not breathing the same air as me."

"I'm offended," Chucky scoffs. "Besides, you didn't complain when we used to sleep like this before."

He groans when Andy elbows him sharply in between his shoulder blades. " _Then_ was different," Andy explains, in a matter of fact kind of way, "And _now_ I hate you."

"I hate you too, asshole," Chucky grumbles, still rubbing his now sore back.

A good hour or so goes by before either of them fall asleep. Andy tugs at the blankets, and then Chucky tugs back, and they try to ignore the other's presence. But when they do give into sleep, personal space is once again forgotten, as it had been once in the kitchen that night, and the rain keeps on, thunder still rolling over them every so often, and lightning flashing by once and again.

They aren't friends, but they sleep better through this night than they have in quite a long while. Chucky doesn't wake in a cold sweat or in strange, bitter cold pains, and Andy doesn't find himself yearning for sleep while staring open-eyed and dizzy at the ceiling. Neither of them dream, and so neither of them have night terrors, and neither of them wake until the sound of Andy's alarm rings through them, and they realize the predicament they've put themselves in.

Andy quickly unwraps his arm from where it had found itself nestled around Chucky, and Chucky just as quickly pulls his now marked cheek away from the collar of Andy's sleep shirt.

"I thought I said to stay on your side," Andy gripes.

"Oh look, I'm in bed with a hypocrite," Chucky retorts, and regrets the wording immediately.

But Andy has already pushed himself out of the bed, and if either of them noticed the way the room seemed thicker and warmer than usual, they do not say. It's tense. Chucky leaves as quickly as he can, retreating to his room, although it is now wet and in need of a lot of work after the damage the storm has done to it. Andy calls out that he will find someone to take a look at the room sometime today, and he is out the door for work. Chucky doesn't respond, and he doesn't say anything about the fact that Andy did not eat breakfast.

He just makes his own breakfast, sullenly crunching on toast in front of the television, and chasing away the rain muddled thoughts that keep entering his mind without his volition.

They're not friends, but they're definitely not quite rivals anymore, and neither of them really know what to do about it. It's tense.


End file.
